


You're a disappointment to everyone but me

by Karaii



Category: Dark Wolverine (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Wolverine and the X-Men (Comics), X-Force (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dubious Consent, Ensemble Cast, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-09 19:22:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karaii/pseuds/Karaii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daken is kidnapped by Marcus Roston after learning from Reed Richards that his healing factor is killing him in the events of Daken: Dark Wolverine 21, making him unable to launch the attack against New York and his father that occurs in the same issue. Instead, he is forcefully re-addicted to the Heat drug and confined with a mind-reading, shape-altering madman who can fuck with him in any way he wants.</p><p>If Daken was not the mastermind behind Evan's kidnapping during the events of Uncanny X-Force, then who...?</p><p>Contains some hand-wavy crossover with events from Uncanny X-Force 25+, Wolverine & The X-Men and W&X: Alpha & Omega.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Daken wonders if he’s having a heart attack.

Everything aches and he feels treacherously _weak_. He cannot remember where he was before he woke up here, dazed and drowsy. It smells acutely of old sweat and vomit. He doesn’t attempt to hold back a pained moan as he struggles to move.

“Shh.”

A hand pets through his hair. He loathes it, even as he leans into it, the sensation lighting his brain on fire. His chest spasms. He feels a thirst so great it cannot be quantified. He could drink a whole ocean and never be full.

The bed sheets he is sprawled on feel less like they are made of ever-shifting ants. Weakly, his fingers clench into the sandpaper cloth and he makes an effort to speak.

“Please…” Daken doesn’t even know what he’s begging for. Everything is a blur of shapes and red lines. “Please…” Nauseated, he closes his eyes and sees a parade of faces he cannot recognize but dreads all the same. He feels like throwing up and up and up until the sky is yellow, and then drowning in the filth.

“It’ll be all right, my pet.” The voice is different now, abruptly terrifying and horrifically familiar. Daken’s eyes snap open and he _freezes_ , muscles locking into place. It’s—It’s—

“ _Master_ ,” Daken mewls in shock. But…it can’t be. Romulus is dead. He’s dead.

Daken begins to tremble uncontrollably.

The beast of a man chuckles, and carts his clawed hands through Daken’s hair in a mockery of kindness. His nails scrape Daken’s skull as if it were chalkboard, but no blood is drawn.

“You are surprised to see me,” rumbles that awful, glass-grating throat. “Did you think I would ever truly leave you?”

Daken makes a wounded noise. He cannot think properly. Heat has made him weak, vulnerable, and before him is the monster that personally stitched together every fiber of his psychopathology. Years upon years of conditioning have him lowering his gaze to Romulus’s broad chest, bowing to expose his neck. With a valiant effort Daken chews back automatic apologies, words of loyalty, and suffers in strained silence, mind churning as if wading through molasses.

Think, you fool. Something is wrong. Romulus is _dead_.

“Clever boy,” the monster hums, and grips great chunks of Daken’s hair in a mighty fist, pulling his head up.  He meets Daken’s eyes and his lips curl into a familiar, god-awful smirk. “But not clever enough.”

A surge of absolute loathing floods Daken. He suddenly knows who this is.

“ _Marcus_!” Daken’s howl cracks midway through, throat parched raw from dehydration. “I killed you!” Donna the F.B.I. agent dropped a helicopter on the bastard but clearly he is more of a cockroach than Daken had given him credit for.

Daken cannot stop shaking, though if it is from fury or withdrawal he can no longer tell. He attempts to lunge at the mirage of a man but Marcus-as-Romulus laughs cruelly and slams his head down on the bed, covering his scalp easily with a giant hand.

“Tsk, tsk, my dear boy. That’s no way to treat your _master_.”

Enraged, Daken is beyond coherence. In his mind’s eye he sees himself eviscerating Marcus, roping his intestines around his throat, and leering down as the vapid imbecile breaths his last. He sees Marcus gurgling, bubbling for air, hands trying to cram his innards back into his gushing cavities. He sees himself triumphing and laughing, satisfied.

But as things are, he can barely move. His claws are still sheathed, the muscles that release them numb to his will. He simultaneously feels both hot and cold, and the persistent _ache_ for Heat eats him up from within. His brain is noncompliant soup.

Marcus eases himself on top of him, his weight as Romulus driving the air from Daken’s lungs with a gagging whoosh. The hand that’s gripping Daken’s hair clenches and releases in a parody of petting, while another clawed finger traces up and down his spine, to settle on Daken’s tattooed arm.

“You must be craving another dose, hm?” Romulus’s ear-grating voice says with Marcus’s melodic candor, a combination that is not something Daken ever wanted to hear. He’s so, _so_ furious but he’s impotent, pinned beneath the shape-shifter and barely managing to inhale through the sheets his face has been pushed against. A chest-deep growl of incandescent rage escapes muffled out his nose.

His strength has deserted him, and he is filthy, weak. Helpless. Heat has made him _ordinary_ , and he—and he—

“Shh, pet.” Marcus’s voice now, and now his body, significantly lighter than Romulus’. Considerably slimmer. But the force in his arms is just as strong, pinning Daken down like a hapless butterfly on display. “You went cold turkey and that made me very unhappy, so I fed you a couple of pills while you were asleep. That was hours ago so the effects must be fading. But don’t worry; I’ve got another little green pill right here, in my pocket. If you promise to behave, I’ll feed it to you, mm?”

Daken tries to thrash away but he barely manages to shift at all. He must not give up under any circumstances, he must always fight, he is stronger, he was _forged_ to be stronger—

But the Heat is so close…he can taste the green pill dissolving in his mouth, but it’s all in his head, and he craves, he craves… Marcus runs his hand up and down his back, laughing softly in his ear. It’s enough to drive a man mad.

For sixty years Daken has punished his body. Suffered all sorts of tortures, physical as well as psychological. Romulus had broken him sixty times over and molded him to a suitable shape, and from then on Daken had been splintered, jagged, but lethally unshattered. Far worse horrors had befallen him than being sat upon by a sadistic, insane immortal and tempted with loose goods. Far more painful and immediate hurts had ripped his bones and flesh asunder and Daken had laughed it off. He’d twisted events to suit him and he’d come out on top, or at least come out smiling.

He isn’t smiling now.

The damnable Heat has seared through him, inside out. Sixty years of endurance erased with six doses of bite-sized green pills. There is no healing factor to filter out the drug now. There is no healing factor to keep his wounded mind together.

“Did you like my acting? Taking on that face,” Marcus is saying, as if it was nothing. “Father-figure, I’m guessing? I’ve seen the man in your dreams but I didn’t know you called him master. Mm, very kinky.”

Daken tries to howl but it comes out more like a choked gurgle. Marcus, in addition to being a shape-shifter, is a powerful mind-reader. He knows _exactly_ what Romulus was to Daken. What he still is, even beyond the grave.

“Did that bother you? Behave, my pet, and you will be rewarded.” Like the bastard he is, Marcus dangles a pill before Daken’s eyes, gently rolling it in between his fingers.

Daken shakes, gnashing his teeth. No. _No_. Pitifully, Daken lets out a broken whine. NO! What is this? He’s becoming a slave to yet another immortal bastard that seeks to use him. To fuck him over. Where is his pride? Where is his prized intellect! Is he going to let this happen all over again…?

Daken loathes himself.

But, well, that’s nothing new. He stops struggling and lies limp.

“Marcus, I’m going to kill you,” Daken breathes wetly. “I’m going to…”

“Shush, that’s good for now. You’ve done well.” Marcus cups his sweaty face tenderly, as if he truly loved him. Daken knows better, but he rests his cheek against that hand anyway, and opens up his mouth like a believer does for a Eucharist. The Heat pill is like poisoned honey on his tongue, and he swallows it dry as Marcus pets his forehead.

A last surge of self-loathing erupts, nearly drives him to bitter tears…but then it dissolves away as the familiar rush of wild colours and odors floods his senses. Daken’s pupils expand, overtaking the blue he inherited from his father. The shakes intensify, then still. A blissful, jagged smile distorts his face. Oh, _oh…_ yes, this is glory. This is _power_. His limbs suddenly find the strength to move. He twists beneath Marcus and seizes the man’s face, leaning in and devouring the other’s tongue. The kiss is messy and uncoordinated but Daken is eager to consume, to overtake, nearly mindless in his need to create and destroy.

Marcus responds warmly, blatantly smug but Daken is far past caring, far past self-loathing and into the realm of reckless abandon. Lust and a need for action and violence boils inside his drug-addled blood, and he huffs out hot breath into Marcus’s mouth. Marcus’s hands are on his body, loosely pinning him down as they cart through his hair, slide down his abs. Daken bites his lip and presses vicious kisses in his cheek, his ear, the slope of his neck.

“Good boy,” Marcus croons, swollen with amusement. “Good dog.”

“Marcus,” Daken growls, as if he’s struggling to remember something, but he can’t stop thrusting up against the man, groin to groin. “Marcus, you…”

“Stop thinking, pet.”

Daken bares his teeth and attacks Marcus’s shoulder, his hands turning into claws at his sides. He wants to fuck. He wants to kill. He wants to be the last man standing. Through the corner of his eye he can see his mother holding a baby, crying softly. Through the other he can see Johnny Storm, tracing his lips and looking lost. Lester is laughing himself to stitches somewhere behind him. It smells strikingly of green tea and vomit.

A large palm backhands him and his vision erupts with red confetti. His jaw opens to snarl in retaliation but he stills immediately at the sight of Romulus, as huge and overwhelming as he’s always been. Romulus’s grin is a mouthful of sharp teeth, eyes narrow and calculating. Logically Daken knows it is Marcus, but his drug-addled senses are insisting this is the real deal. His heart is jack hammering in his chest and he’s dropping pheromones like piss.

“Get on your knees.”

Daken drops before he even realizes it. A part of him is screaming, foaming at the mouth with the indignity. The rest of it is too busy hallucinating the dead man that has dominated his life from even before he was cut out of his mother’s womb.

Romulus’s grin is feral and satisfied. Long sharp claws rake down the side of Daken’s face, and rest on his chin. Daken feels lost and tiny. He is eleven years old and he’s level with Romulus’s thigh. His mouth is drier than dust.

“Show me what you’ve learned, boy.”

A large black nail gently pries his lips open, and Daken obediently takes what is given to him. A strange sort of happiness settles within him, emotions dialed up to eleven with the drug running through his system. Ever since Wolverine sent Romulus to God-knows-where Daken has been lost, adrift without a master. He thought he could take on the world but he can’t, he couldn’t. He thought he knew how but he fucked everything up, lost his edge.

But he definitely knows how to do this. At Romulus’s thigh he is the God of Hell, and Hell is good.

 

~ ~ ~

“Logan, please listen—“

Wolverine feels the rare urge for a cigar. He quit smoking years ago after a bet with Remy and he’s never gone back since. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t crave it every now and then, especially at times like this, when the fucks he can give start getting perilously close to zero.

“I listened an’ I’m sayin’ I ain’t going lookin’, Reed. I imagine the kid’ll sniff me out soon enough, if he’s really croakin’.”

Absently, he picks at his laptop computer, observing the day’s schedule. It’s not even nine in the morning and he’s already bone-weary. For someone who can go for days without complaint, this exhaustion speaks to the fragility of Logan’s patience at the moment.

“He is going to die, Logan. Your son is _dying_.” Reed Richards sounds like a father. He sounds like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “The drugs he took nearly wiped out his healing factor, and now that he’s clean the healing is overcompensating and attacking his healthy cells. His body is eating itself alive, Logan. You need to—”

“Everyone’s dyin’, bub.” Logan says shortly. “Daken has lived a long life, and through a series of shitty decisions, it’s finally comin’ to an end.”

“You can’t mean that. _Logan_!”

“Thanks fer callin’, Reed, but I gotta go. Class starts in five.”

Logan hangs up, feeling only marginally guilty. He’s in a blisteringly foul mood and it seems like it’s only going to get worse.

The school’s been open for less than a month and they’ve already had countless terrorist attacks. Running the assassin squad X-Force on the sly had taken a lot out of him, but he feels it more strongly now that both Beast and Kitty know about its existence and judge him harshly for it. The ordeal with Fantomex murdering the Apocalypse kid-clone and then cloning him again only to raise him has resulted in an extra student he’s not sure the school’s ready for. Hell, the world. And now Archangel off his rocker, thinking he’s some kind of messiah Icarus thanks to Betsy, who just yesterday decided to fuck off with Fantomex. Say goodbye to Warren’s extraordinary funding. To top it off, Quentin Quire’s latest stunt—the one that had left Logan trapped inside of his own mind for days and the dangerously feral Wolverine out roaming the school overnight—has depleted the last of his ability to take bullshit.

He nearly tears his tie apart in an attempt to adjust it in front of the large mirror in his office, making an even bigger mess. A low-level growl rumbles up his chest. He looks like an angry Canadian Bigfoot stuffed into an ill-fitting suit. Who the fuck is he kidding? Everything is going to hell in a hand basket.

Logan pauses and meets his old, weary eyes in the mirror.

He takes a deep breath and exhales, slowly. He summons up the years of training he did in Japan and abroad, to calm his temper and maintain cool. Collected. It takes only five seconds of absolute stillness. Logan efficiently compartmentalizes the stress, fixes his tie with three clever turns of his hands, and brushes the lint off his suit. Headmaster James ‘Logan’ Howlett stares back at him, old and wise and ready to teach a dozen rowdy students the fine art of fighting ninjas.

Briskly, he leaves his office with a briefcase full of lesson plans and handy diagrams of tactical formations. As he walks he peripherally admires the magnificence of the school he’s built with the entirety of his money. After walking the Earth doing military missions left and right for over a hundred years, it had been quite a hefty sum. A better cent never spent, Logan thinks proudly.

Well, most days.

The school’s impressive architecture is even more beautiful when intact. Logan notes with a sigh that it rarely ever is: presently there are big chunks of debris scattered all over the atrium, likely a Danger Room exercise gone bottoms-up. Toad the Janitor ducks his head respectfully ( _resentfully_?) as he passes by, dutifully mopping up the latest disaster.

“Headmaster.”

Logan nods. “Mort.”

On the way to class he waves at Professor Storm (“’Lo, Ro.” “Logan.”) and at Headmistress Kitty Pryde (“Good mornin’, Sprite.” “Hello, Logan.” _She’s still bothered about X-Force_ , he thinks.), exchanges a grin with Professor Iceman (“Bobby.” “Logan, my man!”) and nods at Doop (“Yo, Doop.” “#$%@”. _Lovely_.)  He’s just in time when he ducks into class, and promptly ducks back out again because there’s a chair flying at his face. It stops dead midair an inch away from his outstretched claws.

“Nice save, Kid Omega!” Kid Gladiator bellows.

Quentin Quire preens like a diva, a smug grin on his face. It sharply and abruptly reminds Logan of Daken, and he feels an almost feral bitterness rise up in him. He brutally beats it down and stalks over to his desk, slamming his briefcase down. The room startles and quiets, correctly reading his mood.

“Welcome to Ninjas 101,” he growls in the most pleasant voice he can presently muster. “Can someone tell me what’s the best thing to do when you’re ambushed by the Hand?”

As if on cue, ten Bamfs teleport into the room with two bottles of his very expensive whiskey and chaos ensues. Fifty minutes and an acute headache later, class is dismissed. Yet, for some damn reason, all the students are still lounging in their chairs chatting amongst themselves instead of doing productive shit.

“I said _DISMISSED_!” Logan roars, and the kids scamper. The acrid stench of startled fear lingers in the room after they leave, and Logan grimaces. He struggles not to pinch his nose with a hand and fails. He needs to be more patient. He needs…

“Bamf?” asks one of the Kurt-looking brats and Logan abruptly feels the loss of his best friend, forever raw and fresh. God damn it, Elf, he thinks bitterly. God damn it all to hell.

He misses him and everywhere he looks there are reminders, but there is no substitute for his Kurt. Even the Nightcrawler from the fucked up future where Wolverine is the murderous Apocalypse-Weapon X-monster was nothing like the Kurt he knew and loved and buried. God, everything is so fucked up.

Logan sighs. “You blue rats owe me some whiskey.”

 

~ ~ ~

“Headmaster Logan seemed short today,” Broo remarks, adjusting his glasses with his paws. Idie Okonkwo fondly pets his scaly head and Quentin struggles not to roll his eyes. He fails.

“That’s ‘cause he _is_ short, Broo.” Quentin loops his hands behind his pink-haired head and leans back onto the grass, soaking in the sun. “He’s five foot three.”

“I meant he seemed more angry than usual,” Broo amends.

Quentin Quire knows why Headmaster Logan is angry. He is an Omega-level telepath and he’s been spending a good deal of cozy time in the man’s head every Tuesday and Thursday at six A.M., ostensibly training him in psychic defense. Due to the constant healing factor and the adamantium skull, he cannot read his mind; but he can read surface emotions and see projected scenes based on what Logan is presently feeling or thinking.  There’s a _lot_ of baggage in that furry noggin and it gives him a migraine every time he tries to process the bullshit.

See, he hates Wolverine. He hates the Headmaster for sticking him in this school, forcing him to attend classes for plebeians like some sort of political prisoner. He hates that he has to wage Psych War 101 with him every other day at a fuck-all hour of the morning and get nothing but headaches out of them. He hates having to answer to him and having to keep his secrets and being chained down to _responsibilities_ when he _could_ be causing havoc out there in the real world.

But above all, above all that crap, he hates that he knows _why_ Wolverine has taken the shit Quentin has done in stride and forgiven him, grudgingly, every single time.

Hint: it’s not because he actually cares about _Quentin_.

“Chalk it up to family strife,” Quentin says, waving his hand dismissively.

“What do you know?” Idie asks, her eyes narrowed. “What are you not telling us, Quire?” She’s sharp. Sharper than most of the dull tools in this overstocked shed.

But Quentin’s kind of terrified of the Wolverine, even if he’ll never say it out loud (unless under duress, and God, that’s every day here), and he doesn’t want to get into that particular spot of trouble with the ol’ Headmaster. If he’s going to get yelled at it’ll be for something really noteworthy, like starting a civil war.

Quentin shrugs daintily. “Call it a hunch and call it a day.”

Idie plops down next to him, a sweet, manipulative smile on her face. “There’s still a lot of day left, Quire.” She begins to exude heat from her skin. The hot, humid air swiftly becomes sweltering. It’s rather uncomfortable, and the look on her face is really quite scary.

“Oy.” Quentin tries to inch away, but Broo is blocking his path, wide innocent-looking eyes corralling him. “Oy!”

“Exactly thirteen hours worth of day, to be precise,” Broo says cheerfully.

Quentin frowns at them both, and then crosses his arms. A smirk crawls up his face. “All right. I’ll give you some information in exchange for a favour.”

One civil war, coming right up.

 

~ ~ ~

Daken is mentally counting the number of bones in the human body, visualizing what it will feel like to snap every single one of them in Marcus’s body when he gets his strength back. After fucking his face as Romulus and then taken his limp, willing body (“Daddy issues much? Ha ha!”), Marcus had resumed his usual appearance. He’d puttered about the sparse-sounding bedroom, chatting about things Daken couldn’t quite remember because he’d been so out of it. In addition to his meaningless blabbing, Marcus had enjoyed telepathically observing Daken’s drug-induced hallucinations, edging a word in or two to incite new, horrifying visions. All while laughing and cruelly commenting, the sadistic _prick_.

It had taken nearly an hour for the drug to begin to wear off, whereupon Daken had begun to regain his senses and his sense of shame. And his _fury_. But Daken was still dehydrated, weak, and now with Heat flowing in his veins again, without a healing factor to his name. In such a state he could do absolutely nothing but hiss and spit and whimper, feeling ill. Marcus ‘graciously’ fed him water, some bread, and then promptly stuck his dick in him again.

“Pay attention, love.” Marcus is slightly out of breath, but his smirk is still in place. “Don’t be boring.”

Daken closes his eyes, feeling drained. Marcus shifts his hips and grips his neck, fucking him at a new angle. It’s deep. Daken gags. Breaking bones is too light a punishment for what Marcus has done, for what he’s doing. Daken will torture this man for weeks. He’ll tear off nails, toes, fingers, ears—he’ll take away his senses, one by one—he’ll show him what hell is. He’ll—

Another thrust hits too deep for his jostled body and Daken finds himself retching, throwing up watery bile and bread. The acid burns his throat something awful, but the stench—so close to his face—is even worse. Marcus laughs, delicately covering his face with one hand and steadying himself on Daken’s body with another, still thrusting.

“That’s not very nice, Daken. Mm. You got tight.”

“Are you almost done?” Daken manages to rasp, too weak to move.

“Don’t be impatient,” Marcus tuts, but speeds up.

Daken closes his eyes. Any other person would be sobbing _what do you want_? _What the hell do you want from me_? But Daken knows Marcus wants for nothing, except for a distraction from his perpetual boredom. He knows because he and Marcus are the same, loathe as he is to admit it. And Marcus has bested him at his own game.

For now.

Daken tries to keep calm. Rage is letting go. It is weakness. Madness. Daken carefully locks away the frothing fury, for it is useless to him now. He will plan, strategize, and get his vengeance. He has decades of experience in hiding his feelings, controlling them, and then sharpening them to—

Marcus looses his rhythm. “Ah, Akihiro. Your mind is so _delectable_.” The man orgasms as Daken chokes on an uncontrollable burst of anger, drug-numb to the sensation of wet liquid up his ass (but being quite capable of hearing the ungodly squelching). He feels keenly violated.

“Stay the fuck out of my mind, Roston.” Daken says coldly.

Marcus relaxes beside Daken, curling into his sweaty and cum-stained body. He gently runs a few fingers up Daken’s spine, something Daken realizes he is becoming conditioned to despise.

“Mm, but it’s such a cluster fuck in there. Minds that are too organized bore me.” Marcus presses a kiss to Daken’s clammy shoulder, and Daken can feel the smug lips even without turning around to look at the fucking asshole. “You are extraordinary, my little mad hatter.”

“Are you quite done?” Daken repeats. His teeth are starting to chatter again, but he keeps the trembling out of his voice with a herculean effort. He is exhausted. His body is still in the in-between state of coming off a high and beginning to demand another one, so for what it’s worth he is relatively clear headed. Daken wants nothing more than to sleep for two days and then go on a murdering spree. Preferably with Marcus’s face pasted to all the victims.

“Mm,” Marcus agreed, wrapping an arm around Daken’s muscled form and pulling him flush against his chest. “For tonight. Do you want to be fucked by Wolverine tomorrow?”

Daken stiffens, his rage rising. He tries to hold it back but the past few days have been filled with weakness and illness and hallucinations of his mother sobbing and dragons and Romulus fucking him over, and now thrice-damned _Wolverine_. He feels so dizzy he might pass out. He’s so pissed he can barely get a breath in.

Marcus chuckles cruelly. “I’m a fantastic actor, and you have such juicy details about him in your cracked egg of a skull. I’ve always liked role-playing Daddy. Or do you want to call me ‘tou-san’, mm? Or let’s just stick to _master_.”

Daken’s blood pressure is too high. He’s never had a fever in his life but he has one now. Everything is foggy, cloudy; muggy with rage and the taste of cum and vomit. Distantly he realizes his abused body is going through a seizure.

“You are a disappointment to everyone, Daken,” Marcus whispers as he blacks out. “Everyone but me.”


	2. Chapter 2

Kitty Pryde looks thoroughly unamused. “I’m disappointed in you, Logan.”

Logan’s lip curls into a half-hearted snarl. “Reed talk to you, huh.”

He doesn’t have time for this. He’s waiting for Wade to report back from an X-Force recon mission and he’s got a trip to Africa scheduled on his roster sometime this week, plus Cap wanted a word with him about covert Avengers work. There are administrative school things to settle, especially concerning the ever-present need for funding. Wolverine is on just about every team available and has spread himself so thin that he doesn’t have time for personal matters.

Besides, Logan reasons, he’s tried far too many times to save Daken only for the kid to blow it back in his face. He knows a lost cause when he sees one.

“Yes, Doctor Richards called me knowing you’d listen to me,” Kitty says patiently. “But I have my own opinion on the subject.”

Wolverine crosses his large arms, looking imposing. Kitty, who grew up seeing the gruffest side of Logan and knows he is squishy on the inside, is unaffected. The glare match lasts for all of five seconds before Logan can’t help but fold.

“All right, pumpkin. I’m all ears. What d’ye want me to hear?”

Kitty sighs, and steps up beside him. “Logan, I don’t agree with everything you do.” X-Force being one of those things is heavily implied. “But know that I trust you. I’ve known the darkest parts of you, and I’ve seen you at your best. You’ve always done right by me.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence, sweetheart,” Logan interrupts. “But I still ain’t gonna fetch my boy an’ peel ‘im off the pavement he’s splattered himself on. Done that too many times an’ often jes’ made things worse.” Logan clenches his fist, and thinks of Frank being dismembered, of Skaar nearly dying. Of Daken betraying him for Romulus, every single time. “I heard he was raising hell in L.A. an’ I decided I wasn’t going to put my nose there. That’s about as much kindness as I got in me for the kid.”

Logan meets her stubborn, intelligent eyes. Oh, Kitty. Shadowcat. If Logan is honest with himself, Kitty is more his daughter than any of his legitimate or illegitimate children. She has her own parents and he never sought to usurp that, but the friendship they’ve steadfastly maintained and strengthened over the years is stronger to him than blood. He realizes he would overturn the world to save her, no hesitation.

Unbidden he thinks of Kirika Yashida, the girl he would’ve had with Mariko had they worked out. Dead at the hands of an Apocalypse with the same face as him, no hesitation. He thinks of all the children he’s likely spawned across the years, across the whole damned multiverse, and never known; children with his feral features and inevitably their mother’s distinct beauty and poise.

God, so many beautiful and lost children…and he never raised a single one of them. Hell, he knows he’s personally killed five of them. Poor misguided kids running around calling themselves The Mongrels. Fuck, same as Daken.

Some fucking father he is.

“I’m not asking you to leave for L.A.” Kitty places a hand on Wolverine’s arm. “I’m not even asking you to go to Reed to help him concoct something to fix Daken’s healing factor. If there’s anyone in this room who disapproves of the senseless murder Daken has done over the years, it’s me. But at least don’t take out your indecision on the children.”

Logan blinks. Oh, this was about his skittishness during class. He frowns.

“I didn’t take it out on them,” he grouches.

Kitty looks at him knowingly, and pats his arm before leaving him to his thoughts. “If you do go,” she says before departing, “please let me know so I can supplement your class.” She grins and raises a fist. “I know a lot about ninjas, myself!”

‘Course she does, she’d been trained by one. Ogun had been one hell of a sensei. Hell, he’d trained Logan, too, afore he went crazy. (Had he always been crazy?)

“Will do, squirt. Thanks.”

Kitty waves and then she’s gone right through the wall, easy as breathing. Now that she’s gone Logan feels drained, tired. He inhales to take a sigh when—

Ah, the smell of cheap food and toilet paper. “Welcome back, Wade.”

“Hullo, Boss.” Deadpool extracts himself from a window ledge by the ceiling and drops down without a sound. The combination of his black and white X-Force uniform and the emotionless red eyes make him look more assassin than joker, for once. Dressed like this and quiet, Wade can be scary as fuck: few people can sneak up on Wolverine and live to tell the tale. The mask then shifts with a playful grin, breaking the image. “Trouble in paradise?”

“Always. How did the intel-gatherin’ go?” He hadn’t been expecting Wade back so soon. Logan had actually half-expected (and honestly, more than half-wanted) an urgent call from the man so he could don his X-Force uniform and kill some well-deserving folk. Let out some of the anger building up on villains rather than school kids. Guess it just isn’t his day.

“The ever new Bro-hood of Mystique an’ Sabretooth are behind the latest bullshit. Surprisin’ cause did’ya know it would’ve been your shark-finned boy in issue 27 had he attacked you by now? Keeping track of the multiverse is a bitch, let me tell you.”

Definitely not his day. Logan, however, is used to ignoring Deadpool’s generous but utterly insane asides. “What’s in the facility, Wade?”

“Human weapons,” Deadpool says simply. “Organization by the shitty name of White Sky churns ‘em out and sells ‘em to the highest bidder. Their website is surprisingly user-friendly though. Nice an’ customizable, fast shipping.”

Deadpool distractingly chats on, knowing the news of human experimentation hits Wolverine deep. They’d both gone through the Weapon Plus program and left it with less working cogs than they’d had going in.

“Peachy,” Logan growls. “Who’re Creed’s goons this time?”

“In the facility? Loony lot that go by the name of the Omega Clan.” Deadpool does a lazy back flip. Even on his most sane days Wade cannot stand still for very long. “Red, Black, and White Omega. Real creative names so I figure they’re clones of some sort. Yabbin’ on about you killing their parents or somethin’, didn’t care enough to hear more.”

Logan grimaces. He’s killed a lot of people. It’s very difficult to keep track. “Any idea why they’re clonin’ ol’ villains an’ churnin’ out armies?”

Even through the mask its obvious Deadpool has raised an eyebrow. “They need a reason?”

“You damn well know there’s always a reason,” Logan says coolly. “Give me all your intel on the way an’ we might figure out what.”

“Will do. We stormin’ the place? You me and who else?” Deadpool twirls a gun in one hand and a katana in another. “Betsy an’ Fantomex have skedaddled to France someplace and Warren’s gone all _love and peace_ on the front lawn.”

Logan knows. He feels the loss of his teammates acutely. He is responsible for them all and he’s failed them. But it’s not in his nature to stop and mourn when he’s pissed off. And boy, is he pissed. He’s ready to tear someone a new one and he really needs it to be a bad guy before he regrets it.

The smell of sulfur suddenly invades his nose, then _BAMF_! From the purple smoke emerges a blue-skinned demon with a sharp red tattoo and armed to the teeth, looking coolly murderous.

Ah, the Kurt that isn’t his Kurt. The revenge-seeking one that loathes Wolverine’s face, for it is the shell of Apocalypse in his world.

“I will come.” Nightcrawler’s voice is cold and severe, foreign. “Among their number are those that killed my mother, and I will have my vengeance.”

“Swell!” Deadpool says cheerfully. “Here I was going to have a moment of wangst for our fallen X-Men but you interrupted just in time. Never did like sadness. It’s clobberin’ time!”

 

~ ~ ~

The sun’s bright out in the New York Baxter Building, home of the Fantastic Four, and preoccupation for the resident scientist abounds.

“It’s real late, Reed.” The Thing places a huge hand on Mister Fantastic’s back. “You gotta sleep sometime, man.” The scientist has been up for over thirty hours and it shows.

“Just a little more, Ben.” Reed Richards places his literally drooping head in his hands. His skin looks like depleted, waxy putty. “I’ve got to figure out what’s in this synthetic drug, and how to counteract it.”

“He’s not going to be grateful,” Johnny the Human Torch says spitefully from a corner of his room, very aggressively reading a magazine on beautiful women. “Daken’s a liar and a thief, and curing him won’t make him any better.”

Reed looks up, tiredly. “Maybe not. But he needs my help and I’ve never been known to back down from a problem that only I can solve.”

The air shimmers and Sue Storm appears behind her husband, wrapping her arms around him. She settles her head on the crook of his neck and sighs softly. “Reed, I cared about Daken, too. But Johnny’s right. If you help him he might take advantage of us again. You know he could be a threat to Franklin, maybe everyone in New York.”

“But what if it _was_ our son, Sue?” Reed asks, pained. He thinks of Franklin, dying alone and laughing brokenly and the thought of such a future _hurts_. “A good father never stops loving his son, no matter what horrible things he’s done.” He tries for a cheerful smile, and engages his scientific brain. “Besides, this Heat pill is quite interesting, biochemically speaking. I honestly want to know how it works to selectively destroy the mutant healing factor. It may be extremely dangerous for other mutants to consume, if it eliminates the production of particular peptides provided by the X-gene. I’d like to know if I can synthesize a counter—”

“Oh, Reed.” Sue sighs fondly as Reed placidly chatters on while working. Johnny makes an angry noise and storms off, magazine forgotten. “Johnny?”

“Likely still mad about Daken.” Ben grimaces, remembering how Daken played around with Johnny, with him. Johnny had raged and moped for days after they’d realized Daken had betrayed them (again) and stolen their tech to fuck up Madripoor.  Now that Daken had visited Reed to check up on his health only to disappear once more, Johnny was angry all over again. “I’ll go talk to ‘im. Sue, get our chatty sleep-deprived Reed to bed before he drools out of his seat.”

Sue looks grateful. “Thank you, Ben.”

Ben finds Johnny on the roof. Surprisingly the hothead isn’t zipping about like a meteor: he’s leaning on the edge, looking very morose.

“How you holdin’ up, kid?”

Johnny looks up at him half-heartedly, the anger burnt out of him. “I just…I don’t understand why he does this, Ben. He has us help him and then makes us think he’s dead and it’s our fault—twice—and then he comes back to Reed asking for help, and off he goes again to play at dying.”

Ben joins the Human Torch and shrugs. With naturally heavy-plated shoulders, it’s a loud affair. “Dunno what to tell you, Johnny. He’s a dick an’ he took advantage of our kindness.” For the third time, he thinks privately. Strike out.

Johnny buries his head in his hands. “But what if he really is dying this time? I saw him and he looked really sick. Can he fake that, too?”

Ben knows better than to tell Johnny to forget Daken and just move on. “Probably.”

Johnny sighs into his arms and then jerks his head up, looking cornered. “I wish he was a straight forward villain. I wish he just, like, threatened Franklin or you or Sue and I could just straight forward hate him, no guilt, no regrets.”

Ben doesn’t have an eyebrow to raise but he manages to convey the same emotion anyway. “You want Daken to threaten Franklin?”

Johnny throws his hands up. “No, of course not! I just…God, why do I even care about that bastard?”

“I have no idea, kid.” Ben stares out at the vast New York skyline. He’s lying. He does have an idea, because he knows he cares about Daken, too. Even if only enough to make him stop and wonder why. “I figure it’s ‘cause he’s handsome and a charmer. He’s a bad boy with daddy issues and you felt like you could’a fixed him.”

Johnny stares at him. “You think Daken’s handsome?”

Ben grimaces. “Forget I said anything.”

Johnny cracks a grin then and it makes Ben grudgingly content that he’s cheered the kid up, even at his own expense. Johnny’s the Human Torch, burning bright. When his light dims the whole building feels down in the dumps.

“Bad boy, huh…” Johnny’s smirk is lop-sided and very clearly self-deprecating. “He was the worst gay-panic I never wanted to have.”

Ben feels uncomfortable all of a sudden. “So you’re, uh…?”

“Bisexual is the word, I guess. You, er, bothered by it?” Johnny looks really young suddenly. Ben is practically family and family disapproval never goes down well, no matter if they’re blood or not.

“No, no!” Ben shakes his head. “I don’t care who you sleep with as long as you don’t feel miserable about it afterwards.”

Johnny laughs. “I’ll try for your sake, Ben.”

Ben shrugs. “Do it for yourself, kid.”

Johnny looks at him warmly. “Thanks, Ben.” His face turns sour again. “I’m sorry I’ve been so lousy these days. I still don’t understand what happens to me when Daken’s around. I get more and more clear-headed the longer he’s away, but every time he comes back it’s like I can’t help myself.”

Ben wonders himself. He feels the same, bizarrely, but it doesn’t feel right to him whenever it happens. It’s like he becomes someone else. Either they’re both crazy, or Daken has something up his sleeve that facilitates his manipulation of others. It wouldn’t surprise him.

“Maybe it’s…?” Johnny begins, sounding wistful and heartbroken all at once.

“He’s sixty-some years too old for you, Uncle Johnny. You should date someone closer to your age.”

Ben and Johnny turn around in unison, surprised to see young Franklin Richards there. He looks customarily mature but the tousled blond hair gives away his young age.

“Franklin!” Johnny blushes. “I am not dating Daken, da—darn it. When did you get up here?”

“Time is relativistic, Uncle.” Franklin walks up and comfortably sits on the ledge in the awkward space between Johnny and Ben. “As for Daken, he exudes neurochemically-altering pheromones. That explains your altered behavior when he is present. According to the medical file my father has on him, it is likely one of his mutations.”

Johnny gapes. “Pheromone what now?”

Ben frowns. “You looked at Reed’s confidential files?”

“Yes, dad left them lying around and I am very curious. Did you know that the Heat drug drastically alters the xenobiotic metabolism of the human body, making detoxification almost always fatal? Daken’s healing factor may be the only thing keeping him alive.”

“Back up, buddy,” Johnny says. “What about these pheromones? Do you mean like, uh, what animals give out when they’re, uh, attracted to uh, someone…?”

“Humans give off pheromones as well, Uncle.” Franklin looks very knowledgeable in his button up shirt. “What Daken can do is alter the neurochemistry of another based on select chemical emissions in his sweat. These pheromones do not need to be inhaled by the nose as they readily permeate human skin.” He cocks his head thoughtfully. “Though with Ben’s hardened skin I imagine Ben is unique in that he must smell it to be affected.”

“Augh, gross!” Ben does _not_ want to know he’s been sniffing Daken sweaty roofies just by being near him. Though that does explain his bizarre attraction to the shark-finned dick, when before Ben had only ever been attracted to one man in a sea of nice women.

“Shit, _what_?” Johnny looks devastated. “It was all fake?”

Franklin has the decency to look a bit guilty for revealing the nature of Daken’s manipulative powers so bluntly. “Neither me nor my father are sure if Daken can manipulate someone to, say, feel compelled to help him if they don’t already want to, even if only a little bit.” Franklin brightens up. “He also speculates that Daken has to want the effect to happen for it to seep into his pheromones. So he has to want you for you to want him. Does that help?”

“No, Franklin, it doesn’t!” Johnny looks green. “Daken roofied me!”

Ben had been thinking the same thing.

“God.” Johnny angrily runs a hand through his hair, agitated all over again. “I was such a fool.”

Ben puts a supportive hand on Johnny’s back. “You an’ all of us, Torch. He played us well and proper.”

“At least you know it wasn’t entirely our family’s gullibility,” Franklin says cheerfully. “It was only a little part.”

“Not helping, kid.” Ben sighs and feels a familiar surge of heat beneath his palm as Johnny lights up like a firecracker. His regular clothes singe away to reveal his Fantastic Four outfit, burning orange and yellow with living flame. “You going out for a spin?”

“Or fifty. Don’t expect me for dinner,” Johnny says tersely, and jumps off the roof. With a fiery crack, he’s sped off in God-knows-what direction, leaving only smoke in his wake.

“And there he goes,” Franklin says morosely. “I made things worse, did I not?”

“Naw, kid, it’s good info you gave us.” Ben clenches his fist that had previously been comforting Johnny but now holds only air. “If Daken ever shows his face here again, I’m gonna hold my breath and pound him to paste before he so much as smirks.”

“You may not have to, exactly. Dad made a device that he believes will suppress Daken’s pheromones.” Franklin smiles sheepishly. “He was going to clap it on him after he offered Daken a cure, with the excuse that it would help him deliver the dose.”

Ben looks surprised. “Reed actually built a safety mechanism before he started workin’ on how to fix Daken?”

“Dad is sentimental but not stupid,” Franklin says matter-of-factly. “He would not have endangered us to Daken again without preparation to defend us from him.” He cocks his head. “It’s actually what took him so long to get started on analyzing the Heat drug. He was working a lot from speculation and minute amounts of pheromone he was able to capture, still lingering in the air and on clothes.”

Ben feels a bit ill, himself. “Is that where Johnny’s favourite shirt disappeared to?”

“Yeah,” Franklin looked pleasantly surprised. “How’d you guess?”

“Never you mind, kid.” Ben groans. “God, just…don’t tell Johnny.” He looks out into the distance, where a shooting star zips about New York, pissed off and heartbroken. “I’m gonna break Daken’s face for all he’s done, this time for sure.”

 

~ ~ ~

“ _…it’s clobberin’ time_!” Deadpool’s tinny voice says cheerfully, and then audio cuts off. Doctor Henry McCoy, alias the Beast, looks very blue and very angry with both huge, furry arms crossed. He is a placid man most of the time but right now he is very unhappy. He personally built and monitors the school’s security system, and Logan unwisely chatted about X-Force business in a monitored location.

“Did you catch that, Kitty?” The Vice Principal glances over to his companion, the sharply dressed Headmistress. “This happened twenty minutes ago.”

“The bit about Logan going off to kill more people, or the part about the newly reformed Brotherhood of Evil?” Kitty sighs. “I don’t like the sound of either.”

“Neither do I. Logan has likely departed with his motley crew of assassins.” Beast makes it clear with his tone what he thinks of that. “But I believe the reformed Brotherhood of Evil is a more immediate threat. I have reason to believe Sabretooth has been targeting the school, Evan in particular.” He swivels in his chair to look at Kitty, looking very serious. “I have not told Logan my suspicions. He has professed he will protect the boy but logically his loyalty is stretched thin, tugged in far too many directions. He would sooner put an end to Evan in the name of threat-prevention than aid him in a personal crisis if the strain persists.”

“Hank…” She wishes she could argue, defend the best friend and mentor she’s known for most of her life, but Kitty is not stupid. She is not blind or deaf. Hank is correct in assuming the worst of Wolverine will emerge when shit hits the fan: he will always choose to kill a child in order to spare the world.

“I will find a way to inform Krakoa to keep a vine or fifty out for Sabretooth and any of his intrusive fellows. Knowing the history of the Brotherhood, Blob is likely to be part of their roster.” Hank adjusts his glasses. “I suspect Logan’s son is among them, too.”

“Daken…” Kitty bites her lip and shakes her head. “No, he can’t be. Reed Richards called me today and told me Logan’s son is dying. Overdosed too much on a new designer drug that messed up his healing factor.”

“Reed called me as well.” Hank sighs, and looks at Kitty kindly. “Place yourself in his mind and in his shoes, as foreign as it would be to us both. Dying and enraged, defeated by poetic justice, what would Daken do before death?”

“Try to take Wolverine down with him,” Kitty finishes, and joins Hank’s sigh. “Logan leaves complications left and right, doesn’t he?”

“That he does.” Hank does not seem so kindly any more. “I am not sure if I am capable of tolerating it much longer.”

“Hank…” Kity begins, and then startles as machines start to blare. She urgently points at a monitor facing the front lawn, where a very unpleasant intruder has been spotted. “Hank! The children!”

 

~ ~ ~

On said front lawn, minutes earlier, Quentin is just finishing explaining what he knows about Logan’s anger management issues as of present.

Broo adjusts his glasses. “Headmaster Logan has a son?”

Evan blinks innocently. “Headmaster Logan has sex?”

Idie grins wide. “Hey, if I looked like that I’d be having sex all the time.”

Quentin Quire realizes this has quickly gotten out of hand. “All right you ladies, pipe it down will you?”

Idie and Broo exchange a look but let him continue. Sometime during Quentin’s speech about what he knows about Daken, Evan Sabahnur – that’s the fucking clone of _Apocalypse_ (time bomb ticking as far as Quentin’s concerned) – had decided to sit down and listen, too. Quentin grudgingly carries on despite his loathing of the young man, because he thinks he can rope Evan into owing him a favour, too.

“The problem is Wolverine’s son is a total psycho and he likes making his dad suffer for it. So the Headmaster’s worrying about whether Junior’s going to come and try his hand at demolishing the school, like the last ten thousand idiots before him.”

Quentin isn’t exactly sure why Daken is so fixated on hurting his father. He’s only ever really gotten impressions and brief images of the tattooed man from Wolverine during their Psych War sessions. The gist Quentin gets is that this ‘Daken’ hadn’t been raised by Logan and that somewhere down the line his goal in life had become to hurt his dad to feel good about himself.

Daken, Daken, Daken. That is a good chunk of what Logan’s mind twists about like a bad swirly during their sessions (and the rest is consumed with thoughts of an apocalyptic Evan). It ticks Kid Omega off like crazy.

See, Quentin is the farthest thing from stupid there is. He can see traces of why Headmaster Logan tries so hard to get Quentin to go down the goodie-good path. With his own mohawk and bad attitude and personal grudge against Wolverine, Quentin is the younger hotter and infinitely more redeemable version of Wolverine’s son. So naturally it royally pisses him off that Logan sees Daken every time he looks at him, instead of seeing Quentin himself.

“A happy child would not hurt his parents.” Evan wraps his arms tightly around his knees, likely thinking about his own family off in backwater Kansas or where-the-fuck-ever. “Did Headmaster Logan mistreat him?”

Quentin bares his teeth. “Did yours, huh?” He’s read up all on Apocalypse and Evan is dangerous, no matter how doey his eyes get when he insults him. “Shut your trap, sociopath, and let me do the thinking.”

Evan’s face scrunches, hurt and angry. “Why do you hate me, Quire? What have I ever done to you?”

It’s not what he’d done but what he most assuredly would do. “All you are is a bad day waiting for me in the future,” Quentin spits viciously. Evan is the genetic bastard twin of the first mutant to ever be born, and will be the last one to ever die, after he’s killed everyone else.

Idie strikes the back of Quentin’s head.

“Ow!”

“Boys, can the UST.” She glares at them both and silences Evan (“UST…?”) with a raised hand. “So Headmaster Wolverine has got a grudge match with his son. Whatever. You say he’s worried his kid is going to come trash the school? Then we’ll be ready for him.” Idie looks very serious and very competent, and damn, she’s even taller than Quentin with that gorgeous natural ‘fro. “Do you have information about what his powers are?”

Quentin crosses his arms. He’s miffed Idie has taken the position of leader and looks the part and is also really, really hot, which he strives to be _thank you suntan in progress._ “Claws and healing,” he says grudgingly. “Creativity. Sadism.”

Broo adjusts his glasses. “The latter two are not super powers, Quentin.”

“I only know what Wolverine thinks he knows.” Quentin frowns defensively. “And it’s not like the estimable Headmaster lets me in too deep inside his head these days.”

He thinks of their Psych War sessions without much fondness. Wolverine has had so many telepaths in his head that his mind is a total mess to navigate, let alone figure out. The best Quentin’s managed to do is make Logan’s brain create a bullshit virtual reality by itself (which was a rather impressive feat, if you ask him!), but properly digging around and finding out things is exponentially more difficult to do if Wolverine isn’t already dwelling on the information. His adamantium skull also makes psychic penetration a real fucking headache.

“If we can’t get info off of the Headmaster’s head, then we’ll hit the internet.” Idie nods decisively and then smiles gently at her best friend. “Can you help us Broo? You’re the best by far in Professor Kitty’s Hacking 101 class.”

Broo fiddles with his claws, nervously. “I’m not sure if we’re allowed…”

Evan gets to his feet and brushes himself off. He looks like he’s come to an important decision, and also looks leader-ish, which further serves to annoy Quentin. “I’d usually agree with you, Broo, but if we’re in danger, I think it’s important to get to know the enemy. My Uncle Cluster always told me to hope for the best and prepare for the worst.”

 “Surprisingly progressive of you, Lips.” Quentin’s face twists. “Is that why you joined this school? To understand your enemies?”

“Yes,” Evan says placidly. “But you are not my enemy, Quentin.” He remembers Uncle Cluster telling him to be the better man, too, and he plans to be the best man he can be.

“Maybe,” Quentin growls. “Maybe not _yet_.”

Their feud is interrupted by the ground shifting beneath their feet, _exactly_ like a sentient earthquake.

“Whoa!”

“Ack!”

“Krakoa!” Quentin yelps and reaches out telepathically. “ _What_ \--?”

 _Danger_ , Krakoa tells Quentin urgently. He is promptly encased in a suffocating cocoon of leaves, roots and dirt alongside Evan, Idie and Broo. Outside he can hear the muffled sounds of someone yelling.

“What kind of danger are we talking about, Krak?”

Idie and Evan turn to look at him, wide-eyed, aware he is communicating with the sentient groundskeeper. Broo meanwhile is raising his head, sniffing.

“It smells like wet cat,” Broo says, alien nose wrinkled. “And blood.”

“It’s Sabretooth. He’s an old enemy of Logan’s.” Quentin’s seen the large man in the Headmaster’s head many times, and felt the pain and anger associated with his image enough to know to hate him on sight. “He seems to have come alone though, and Krakoa is currently making his life a living nightmare. Good job, Krak!”

Evan doesn’t look very comfortable, but he strives to pay attention. “Why would he come alone? That doesn’t make any sense.”

Idie’s expression narrows, her fist clenching with bits of smoke. “A diversion?”

“Whatever it is, I can drop him,” Quentin says confidently, trying to shift about in Krakoa’s earthy grip. “I’ll get into his head and knock him out.”

“We’ll see who knocks him out first,” Idie says competitively.

As if reading the decisiveness in their minds, Krakoa’s protective vines recede and expose them to the battlefield that is Sabretooth fighting against Professor Beast, Professor Storm, Professor Iceman, and Headmistress Kitty. A dozen students are peering out windows and another few are scattered across the lawn, looking on curiously. Since the school has been attacked so many times before, observing epic fights has become less terrifying and more like a convenient recess break. The running joke is that ‘Lockdown’ is the most popular class of them all, and the present moment seems to be confirming it as fact.

“ _Mon Dieu_ , get out of the way!” Professor Gambit abruptly blocks their view, seemingly trying to herd them back into the school.

“We can help!” Evan says stubbornly, and Gambit stares at him with such an intense expression it’s almost frightening, but a second later he looks his usual cheerful self.

“Nothing to see here, kids, it’ll be over soon.”

Idie and Quentin proceed to utterly ignore him and run past him, straight into the fray. Evan looks torn and Broo just looks resigned to chilling on the sidelines. Gambit lightly places a hand on Evan’s shoulder and pats him.

“You’ll get to see your fair share of action soon enough, kiddo.” Gambit’s shape fizzes and suddenly he is Fantomex, wearing his trademark white and black mask.

Evan’s jaw drops. “Uncle Cluster!?”

“The one and only.” He nods at Broo, who appears to be ignoring them both completely. “I’m misdirecting him to see Gambit, hence his vacant expression. I’m here to get you out, son. Sabretooth is after you.”

“But…”

“There’s no time to lose, Evan. I’ll bring you back to school after Logan and I have figured out why they are after you.” He reaches out and holds Evan’s hand. “Aunt Betsy’s waiting by the ship. Hurry!”

Evan worriedly glances at the battle, which is filled with howling winds and gusts of fire and ice. He desperately wants to stay so Quentin won’t accuse him of being a coward or a traitor. But he loves Uncle Cluster and he trusts him above all else, so with a final reluctant look, he grasps Fantomex’s hand and runs.

~ ~ ~

The battle only lasts as long as it does because Krakoa’s gone a bit batty in its over-protectiveness, attacking everyone who isn’t a student. Sabretooth has over a century worth of trench warfare and he’s nimble, almost elegant, using the sentient, feral terrain to his advantage. He’s finally caught when Bobby manages to freeze his feet just as Storm electrocutes the hell out of him, leaving a pile of steaming flesh for Krakoa to spear and pin down.

Now that he’s stopped moving and vulnerable, Quentin jumps in to strongly suggest _sleep_ and Sabretooth is out like a light. Whereupon he begins to purr. Loudly. Quentin beams: blackmail material in the making! Headmaster Logan will definitely enjoy this one.

The Headmistress wants to yell at Quentin for jumping into the fray but Storm first has the Bamfs fetch a pair of adamantium shackles from Logan’s room (no one really wants to think too deeply as to how she knows where those were or why Logan even owns some) and Kitty promptly chains the unconscious Sabretooth with her ninja expertise, making sure to tightly lock his feet and arms so he will not be able to harm anyone with a swipe of a paw.

Only then does she turn around and, placing her hands on her hips, says in a severe voice. “Quentin Quire, why did you not stay inside the school? You could have been hurt.”

Quentin rolls his eyes so high he half-expects to see the fleshy bits of his eye sockets. “He’s only one mutant with no projectile mutations. We deal with way worse every day on the way to class, thanks to the campus-wide cluster fuck you call the Danger Room.” He grins cockily. “Besides, it wasn’t just me. Idie and Broo jumped right in with me.”

Kitty raises an eyebrow. “Idie and Broo are very dutifully standing by the entrance, same as the rest of the students.”

Quentin swivels his head around in surprise and lo and behold, Idie and Broo are there, angelic-like. Idie waves sweetly, clearly smug. She must have left the fray right before it was over, to avoid getting yelled at. The young telepath pouts. He’ll get back to her for this somehow.

Quentin turns back to Kitty and puffs his chest up. “Whatever. I made the big bad go to sleep long enough for you to chain him. Don’t I deserve a gold star?”

“I’m not Headmaster Logan, Quentin,” Kitty says coolly. “I will not reward you for bad behavior.”

“Talk about mixed messages, geez.” Quentin abruptly flicks a hand to his temple, feeling the beginnings of a psychic migraine. Bloody hell. “Not to break the moment but keeping this big cat down is giving me a bit of a headache. Can I let him wake up now?”

“You may, but be ready to catch him again if he seems to be about to escape.”

Oh, so _now_ she orders him to help as needed. Quentin moodily releases Sabretooth from his psychic hold and it doesn’t take more than a second for the large mutant to cease purring and become fully conscious, golden eyes snapping open. The chains clink as he tenses, sniffs, then relaxes.

Sabretooth looks far too pleased with himself. He tugs his bonds once but they hold. “Mm, kinky. I like this school.”

“Shut up, Sabretooth.” Kitty could be made of ice from the frost she’s spitting. “Why are you here?”

“Comin’ to collect a squirt o’ yours, toots.” He grins a mouthful of knives. “One you’ll be glad to get rid of, I’m sure.”

“You are not touching a hair on a single one of my students. I am quite capable of phasing a hand through your chest and crushing your heart. Do not test me.”

“Scary. Where’s the runt?” That’s his disturbingly affectionate name for Logan, Quentin knows. Sabretooth takes another sniff and frowns contemplatively. “Smells like you chatted him up not long ago. He stressed out ‘bout something?”

“None of your business. What do you want with our students?”

“Nothin’ much, jes’ the world.” Sabretooth shrugs with a smirk. “Maybe some sweet-baked Kansas pie.”

Kitty’s eyes go frostbite cold. “Evan.”

“Apocalypse,” Sabretooth corrects with a purr. “Once we get our claws in ‘im, he’ll realize who he is an’ come to his own. Monsters of his kinda caliber don’t belong in your school, kitten.”

Kitty turns, consulting Hank. “Where is Evan?”

“I will go check the monitors—“

“He’s with Professor Gambit,” Quentin pipes in, still massaging his head. “Teach tried to keep us out of the fight.” As one, all the teachers freeze and the colour drains from their faces. Quentin blinks in confusion. “What?”

“Professor Gambit is a visiting professor,” Storm says slowly, “who is not currently visiting.”

Sabretooth laughs heartily. “Whoops! Sounds like you lost a kid, sweet cheeks.”

Kitty doesn’t even hesitate: she phases through his throat and rips out his vocal chords. It’s over in an instant but Quentin startles badly, not expecting such violence. He stares as a gush of gargled blood escapes Sabretooth, his chest still rumbling with audible, pained laughter.

Headmistress Shadowcat is all business despite the caked gore running down her hand. “Hank, get me videos and audio on Evan. Now.”

Beast has already loped off, fur askew.

“Ororo, Bobby, get this filth into a detention room.”

With a nod, Storm levitates Sabretooth while Iceman freezes him in place, and together they float him into the school, past the gawking schoolchildren.

“And you.” Kitty turns her severe eyes on Quentin, hand still blood-soaked and suit scuffled from the fight. “You’re going to help me contact Logan.”

Quentin is still gaping. “Y-you’re terrifying.” His eyes go starry. “I think I love you.”


	3. Chapter 3

Inevitably the mission goes badly.

In retrospect Wolverine knows he should have expected it considering Sabretooth and Mystique are behind the latest incarnation of the Brotherhood of Evil. But after so much piling stress he’d been eager to get into a justifiable fight and now he’s lead his troops to slaughter.

At first it’s the usual: Deadpool is cart-wheeling and back-flipping his way through the mob of test-tube mercenaries, wise-cracking and back-breaking with acrobatic grace.

“Good luck is where opportunity—“ _slice_ “—meets preparation!” _Slice-slice-slice_! “And you bet your ass I’m prepared!”

Future Nightcrawler is _bamf_ ing his way through the ranks, impaling and decapitating with a snarl. He grins when he hears Deadpool. “Wade thinks he’s a movie star again.”

“Who’s it this time?” Wolverine nails two goons in one jab and uses the corpses to trip a third. “Robert Evans?”

“You’re all failing your auditions!” Deadpool yells, elegantly murdering his way across the room. “I need a star, baby!”

Deadpool gets his star in the form of the Omega Clan: three green beans of soldiers who’ve been brainwashed into believing X-Force has murdered their folks in cold blood. Cloned from Wolverine’s old enemy Red Omega, each is dipped in a unique flavor of crazy. The sad part is that Wolverine wouldn’t have been surprised if he _had_ killed their parents. He’s killed so many people in his life that these outcomes tend to be the norm more often than is comfortable. But the fact of the matter is that he’s got nothing to do with it. These poor sods have been bred and raised to believe a lie, and they’re going to die for it.

 _You’ve given in to the worst part of yourself_ , Betsy had said before she’d left X-Force with Fantomex at her wake. She was right.

“For our parents, you will die!" Omega Red’s carbonadium tentacles hurt like a bitch. Carbonadium is of the few things that can actually damage Wolverine, and fuck if he doesn’t hate it.

“For the last time, we didn’t kill yer folks, bub.” Wolverine twists and manages to get a tight grip on the metal tentacle, which he promptly jerks in order to get the clone off-balance. “Though damn if you ain’t making me wish we did.”

Things start to fall apart when Deadpool fails to duck and gets struck by Omega Black, violently hard against his human skull. With his healing factor fucked up Wade falls like a sack of potatoes and doesn’t get up.

“Deadpool!”

Nightcrawler attempts to _bamf_ to his side but gets pierced by Omega White en route. “Oh _Gott_ —“ He vomits bile and blood, clutching frantically at the metal pumping toxins into his back.

“Elf!”

“Suffer, demon!”

Wolverine sees red. He’s not going to lose Kurt, not again. With a roar of unbridled rage he lets go of reason and embraces the beast in himself. Within seconds he’s crossed the length of the room and eviscerated five unfortunate bastards, leaping to slam his claws into Omega White.

His lunge hits nothing. White has the power to become intangible and Wolverine’s claws dig into the floor instead of soft flesh. Fortunately, this means the tentacle going through Nightcrawler’s side phases out of him and he falls to the ground in a bloody heap. His hair is an odd shade of white.

“We have the power of pestilence,” Omega Black says with an unladylike laugh. “Your friends will die of every disease as they bleed their last!”

Wolverine howls and takes the three of them on himself. It does not go well. White, Red, Black—they are nimble, well-coordinated together, and full of vengeance. Wolverine’s fighting style is ill suited to facing them, for he is a tank that embraces damage and they only need a single strike to inject their toxin. Five poisonous blows and Wolverine is gagging, bloating, his immune system attacking itself. Shortly after and all three of their tentacles spear through him in every direction, leaving him a mutant pincushion that grows ever more grotesque, his skin swelling with all manner of illness.

“Stop,” Wolverine gurgles. “Yer—yer bein’ used—“

“Lying to save your skin,” Omega White spits angrily. “Like the cancer we feed your body, you are—“

“Whoops!” Deadpool cleanly decapitates the man, having quietly regained conscience and stealthily snuck up on the trio. “I’m already dying of cancer sooo… not your brightest idea.”

“Engel!” cries Omega Black, and detaches her tentacles from Wolverine in order to get to Deadpool. “You killed my brother!”

The assassin is faster though, having learned his lesson from the head wound. In unusual silence he dodges the carbonadium appendages and, with a viciously precise cut, amputates one of her arms.

“Sylvia, no!” Omega Red releases Wolverine too and, catching his wounded sister, makes a hasty retreat. “I will kill you for what you’ve done! Mark my words!” He leaps off the edge of the platform and is gone, leaving the headless corpse of Omega White and the three members of X-Force.

“Yeah, yeah. Get in line, bub." Wolverine struggles to get to his thick, stubby feet, coughing phlegm and blood. He feels like shit and, with pounds of toxin in his veins, looks morbidly obese.

“Want me to finish ‘em off before they bravely run away, away?” Deadpool sing-songs, twirling a sword impatiently. His head is still bleeding sluggishly through his mask but he pointedly takes no note of it. “Or you need some help slicing off some of the blubber you’ve gained? Talk about _supersize me_.”

Wolverine snarls, riding down the high from his feral adrenaline. But he shakes his head and dispels the rage for clarity’s sake. “No. Check Nightcrawler, get his bleedin’ under control enough for him to teleport us. I’m gonna get this shit outta my system an’ then we’re tailin’ it back to the Cave.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Deadpool says easily enough and lopes over to Nightcrawler’s side, where the blue mutant is coughing violently.

This mission has gone to shit and Wolverine is pissed. _Someone planned this_ , he thinks moodily as he slices his guts open and lets them and the poison in his veins spill out. Someone who knew he would attack this god-forsaken facility head on, eager for a fight. Someone who foresaw enough to plant memories in test-tube clones that painted a bloody bullseye on Wolverine’s forehead and the Elf's and even Wade.

He feels dizzy from the blood loss and nearly loses consciousness from the smell alone, but manages to hold on, furiously thinking about who could be behind this stunt. From Wade’s info he knows Sabretooth is involved in this operation, but this is sly shit, this isn’t really his style. Sabretooth would go for the jugular, he’d hit Logan where it hurt—he’d rather hit home and personal than—

Fuck.

“Fall back!” Wolverine roars. “This was a set up, a distraction!”

“We are _not_ running!” Nightcrawler snarls weakly, clutching onto Deadpool. “We are not defeated!”

“God damn it, Elf! This is a trap! Someone planned this ambush!” Wolverine clutches at his sliced open belly, leaking pus and blood. The poison is finally leaving him, and all that’s left is to cut out the excess skin. He’ll have to do it enroute to Cavern-X. “Port us back into the ship. We have to regroup.”

 

 

~ ~ ~

Daken wakes to the feeling of his entire body shuddering, tangled in thick bed sheets. He feels sick and close to throwing up but there’s nothing in his stomach. He doesn’t know how long he lies there, naked and trembling. God, he’s so cold. He needs warmth. He needs _Heat_. He needs—someone— _anyone_ —

“Ah, you’ve come to.” A hand comes to pet his clammy forehead. “Sorry I was away for so long, I was out doing evil things.”

The man smells familiar and he dislikes him but Daken’s need for Heat overcomes his instinctive rejection. “Please,” he manages to whisper, ragged and parched. “Please, please…”

“Mm, not yet pet. Don’t know if you’d survive it. How about we get some food into you?”

Daken is so out of it he can barely focus, vision dim. Food sounds loathsome but he feels so weak that he knows he must get some energy into his body before it gives out. He’s never felt so exhausted before, so unlike himself. The hand returns with a spoonful of tasteless broth. Daken spills most of it but swallows enough to feel some measure of relief.

“All right, I’ve drawn up some water for you. Try not to drown, hm?”

Daken tries but can’t stand up. The hands are strong and lift him up, carrying him somewhere warm and humid. He’s placed, surprisingly gently, into a scalding bath. Daken whines in pain, thrashing weakly.

“Hurts,” he croaks.

“It’s lukewarm, dear. Your body temperature is low because you’re going through withdrawal, so it feels very hot. You’ll be fine.”

 _Withdrawal_. Daken begins to shake, remembering his desperate hunger. “Please, I need—please, give me—“

“Can’t,” the voice hums, and begins to gently pour burning water over his head. Daken tries to jerk away but is held still. “You should be grateful. I’m wiping away two days worth of nasty off of you.” A melodic, grating laugh.

 _Please_ , he mouths silently, but allows the manhandling. He does feel a bit stronger with the gruel in his stomach and the scent of flowery shampoo. He hasn’t stopped shaking, though.

“I’ve been busy while you were sleeping,” the voice hums. “Messing with your old man and his friends. I can see why you enjoy antagonizing him. He riles easily, doesn’t he?”

Daken slowly starts to make sense of the words. “Wolverine…?”

“Kind of like you, really,” the voice continues as if it hadn’t heard him. “You hit a sore spot and both of you become animals. It’s very arousing.”

Daken feels a flush of offense creep up him, though he still feels lost and detached, as if his body were not his own. He tries to struggle again, but all he manages to do is displace some soapy water.

“Hold your breath a bit, will you?”

Daken wants to ask _why_? but a hand is covering his nose and mouth and then suddenly he’s surrounded by water. His eyes sting and he flails, desperate now, unable to breathe. He’s disoriented and terrified, abruptly reminded of his mortality. He tries to claw away at the hands holding him down and succeeds in wounding them, because the soapy water in front of him suddenly floods with the taste of blood.

And then more blood, because the hand has slammed Daken’s head against the side of the tub.

He’s raised from the tub by the hair, utterly dazed and in pain. His stomach threatens to regurgitate but the panic holds it down.

“Bad dog,” the voice berates him. “Put those away or I’ll saw them off you.”

Daken doesn’t remember why but he’s terrified of the idea of someone taking away his claws. In response to his emotion they retract automatically, protected within his arms.

“Good, good. Now sit here a bit while I go clean my cut up. Holler if you start to drown, okay?”

Daken tries to protest but the hurtful hands and the loathsome voice are gone. He still cannot see properly, but he can dimly make out a white bathtub and reddish-white water. He reaches up to rub at his eyes and notices his weak, pale hand. Lazy blood is oozing out of his bruised knuckles, something he recognizes as a result of his claws. It’s strange, however, because despite knowing this he has never seen his skin bruised like this before.

Then Daken remembers his healing factor, and how it is gone. And then he remembers Marcus Roston and his humiliating captivity.

Raw hate and panic flood his system. He clutches at the edges of the tub as a weak snarl escapes him. _No_ , he tells himself. Don’t go down that route. Stop and think, you wretched fool. How was he going to get out of this situation?

Take advantage. Come out on top. Manipulate. Daken exhales a slow, rattling breath. He feels so indignant, so frustrated and angry and used. He wishes he’d sliced Marcus more, deep enough to saw bone. But no, he must be calm. He is vulnerable right now and he has to take that into account.

For now Marcus is helping him: feeding and bathing him. But Daken does not know how long this will last, what with the man’s fickle and cruel nature. Marcus Roston is insane and wants for nothing but entertainment.

All right, Akihiro. Entertain him. Then gut him, _lovingly_.

Daken’s train of thought is interrupted by the shrill sound of a telephone in the next room. He perks up. He still cannot see properly but he can hear quite well. At least that sharp sense has not left him.

Footsteps approach the sound and the phone is picked up. “Yes?”

Daken pauses. That…sounds very much like his voice. He strains to listen to the other end of the line, clutching the bathtub tightly.

“ _Daken, we’ve secured the Apocalypse clone_.”

“Splendid,” his voice replies, and Daken suddenly understands that it is Marcus who is speaking, disguised as him. With his shape shifting powers and telepathy, Daken is horrified to realize the bastard could easily impersonate him and get away with it without anyone knowing any better. He feels another flood of dread and loathing. “How did daddy react?”

 _I don't speak like that_ , Daken thinks furiously. Who the fuck is on the other end of the line that can’t recognize a fake for a fraud?

“ _He was too busy raiding White Sky to notice. He will soon, I imagine, once we let him know where we are. Come with claws sharpened_.”

“Perfect. Is the adamantium trap set?”

“ _Just waiting for you._ ”

Daken struggles to recognize the tinny voice. Is that…Mystique?

“How is the boy?”

“ _Farouk is keeping him asleep, telepathically making him dream he’s with his dear old Uncle Cluster. It’s kind of pitiful, really. The Apocalypse is very green. Disgustingly so—‘apple pie good’, Victor says. He might need more of a push than we originally contemplated to drive him over the edge_.”

“He’ll get his push. And the real Fantomex?”

“ _Parading around in Paris, I imagine. Doubtlessly he’ll come running once Wolverine informs him of the situation_.”

“Have Weapon III deal with him and Farouk with Psylocke if she decides to tag along. Is that all?”

Daken’s heart is racing, mind whirling, trying to understand everything that is transpiring. Mystique is working with Marcus-as-Daken in order to secure a presumable child clone of Apocalypse. Marcus had earlier mentioned he’d been running around messing with Wolverine. This was likely part of it. But why?

Boredom?

“ _We lost an Omega and another lost a hand. I’ve dealt with them. Victor has successfully breached the school and remains inside, as planned. There is more but I do not trust this line. Time is of the essence if we wish to maintain our advantage over Wolverine._ ”

“Good, great. You’ll hear from me soon.” Marcus hangs up, and then returns to the bathroom, his expensive shoes loud against the tile.

“What are you doing, Marcus?” Daken rasps, glaring in the direction of the sound. All he can see is a dark-shaped blur.

“Ah, you’re more yourself again. I was afraid you’d lost it for a while there. That would have been terribly boring.” The shape comes closer, and Daken can make out the features of his own face. Undoubtedly, Marcus has been stealing his identity.

Daken’s lip curls. “You sound nothing like me.”

“Perhaps, but everyone seems to be buying it.” Marcus grin is smug and cruel. He borrows Daken’s voice again and pitches it unnaturally high. “ _Daddy doesn’t love me so I’m going to make him suffer_! _All I wanted was a hug and for him to teach me how to play catch and walk me to prom_!”

Daken’s blood runs ice cold with fury. “You fucking piece of shit.”

Marcus laughs, and his face and body become his own again. “Don’t be so easy, darling. I’m giving you a present.”

“And what is that?” Daken snarls. “A migraine?”

Marcus kneels and strokes his face. It takes everything in Daken not to lunge forward and bite him. “I’m giving you Wolverine.”

Daken’s eyes narrow. “You’re giving me…Wolverine?”

“Mmhmm. Do keep up, pet.” Marcus leans forward and kisses him. Daken allows it only because he is curious. Marcus draws back and runs a hand down the back of Daken’s head, to rest against his neck. Gently his thumb teases an earlobe. “You are ever so boring when it comes to your daddy complex. No, don’t tense, that gets old. I’m letting you kill him so you can move on with your life and be interesting again. Prove your worth to me.”

It would hurt Daken’s head to keep up with Marcus if he weren’t on the same page as the lunatic. “So you’re wrapping my old man with a ribbon so I can hang him…in order to let me be interesting again to you?”

“Not hang. Drown. But yes, wasn’t it obvious?” Marcus grins his multi-million dollar smile, pearly white and everything. Even mad as a hatter, Marcus is obnoxiously handsome.

Fantastic, Daken thinks to himself. An insane buffoon is keeping him hostage God-knows-where and is giving him a love letter in the form of his dead father. Daken sorely misses Bullseye. At least Lester was easy to manipulate when things went sour, even if the man did enjoy dismembering him. That was still far more enjoyable than being confined to a bathtub with no healing factor and an addiction to deadly drugs, possessed by a narcissistic madman. But, well, he would make do.

He always did.

“Well played,” Daken says grudgingly. “I accept your present, Marcus. Now get me out of this bath, I’m wrinkling.” He holds out a hand.

Marcus glances at it and ignores it. “No, I think I’ll leave you in there for a bit longer. You still smell rather filthy, and I need to get going. I have a few more calls to make.” He smiles charmingly. “Try not to drown, pet.” He waves and leaves the room. “Make sure to clean behind your ears!”

“Roston!” Daken barks angrily, and tries to get up. He doesn’t have the strength, and slips back into the tub. “Marcus!”

“I’ll be back in a few hours! Ta ta!” The sound of the door closing, then silence.

Mother _fucker_!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Fic illustration](http://karaii.tumblr.com/post/74926914346/an-illustration-of-my-daken-marcus-fic-with-an) of Marcus kissing a pissed off Daken in a bathtub.


	4. Chapter 4

Wolverine nearly crash-lands the jet into Cavern-X’s hanger. He dreadfully misses _E.V.A_., the sentient spaceship that Fantomex had taken with him when he’d left X-Force _. E.V.A_. had never needed a pilot and had never crashed into anything. Wolverine forgives himself because he’s still dizzy from having disemboweled himself five times during the flight in order to get all of the Omega poison out of his system. The plane itself smells like innards and Wade’s vomit and Kurt’s sickness.

“Get the medical lab prepped!” He roars at Deadpool, who’d taken off his mask and was currently holding an ice pack to his still sluggishly bleeding head.

“Hey man, I’m injured too!” Wade complains, but he’s already jogging out. It’s a rare day when Deadpool is so compliant but he’s been on his best behavior ever since the incident with the mutant power-negating serum that involved the Kingpin and Tombstone and his own son Daken, which Logan has no time to contemplate because he’s torn his mask off and has run to Nightcrawler’s side.

“You ain’t leaving me twice, Elf,” the burly man says harshly, hoisting the blue mutant onto a stretcher.

Nightcrawler looks like death. His hair is white and his skin is wrinkled. It’s as if he’s aged twenty years in a day. Whatever shit Omega White had pumped into him with his poison had fucked Kurt up bad. Wolverine savagely does not regret Omega White’s decapitation.

He quickly wheels Nightcrawler into the medical bay where Wade has set everything up. He hooks Nightcrawler up into an I.V. with a simple healing fluid derived from his own blood and sets the machines there to run a diagnostic assessment, which promptly informs him that it may be a few minutes.

That’s all he can do for now, but damned if he’s going to sit around waiting listlessly. “I need to contact Hank,” Wolverine bites out. The Beast may hate him for what he’s done for X-Force but he would never let Kurt suffer for it.

“This isn’t even my studio,” Deadpool interrupts drowsily, walking from one end of the room to the other, gesticulating meaninglessly to some imaginary audience. “The cameras can’t fit there, you see.”

Ah, shit. Wolverine forgets Deadpool without a healing factor does not mean he isn’t bat shit crazy. “You gonna be okay, Wade?”

“’M name’s Robert Evans, junior,” Deadpool says importantly, blood running down the side of his neck. “And I single-handedly saved Paramount pictures!”

“Right, right,” Wolverine knows better than to fight Wade’s delusions when they strike. “Sit yer ass down an’ contemplate yer newest flick while I bandage yer head. Do you know what you’re going to call it?”

“ _The Godfather_!” Wade says proudly, and happily starts yammering on about it, as if he really were its producer and it were the 70’s. Logan tunes him out automatically.

As he disinfects Wade’s head wound and wraps it up with gauze, Logan’s forced to contemplate the vulnerability Deadpool now faces without a healing factor. Up until he’d lost it, Wade had been obsessed with dying. Spoke Thanos-level crazy about being in love with Death, as if it were some bird to be chased after and wooed. He’d lied and manipulated X-Force into going after the Kingpin, all so he could get a dose of a serum that could negate his mutant power and let him die once and for all.

Wolverine had been understandably pissed. Wade had used the magical words _I need your help_ and used his friendship with the X-Force members to set them up. He’d even contacted _Daken_ of all people to get him to show up and join the frenzy, luring him by planting the idea that he could kill Wolverine by dosing him with the stuff. Everything could have easily gone tits-up, and Jesus, it practically had.

Daken…

 _Your son is dying_ , Reed Richards had said, sounding more a father than Wolverine had ever been.

Fuck! He doesn’t have time to be worrying about that shit. He has to get Hank to help Kurt. Logan stands and prowls over to a monitor that will let him contact the Jean Grey School from Cavern-X.

“You’re too short to play _The Godfather_ ,” Wade says. “But you got the predator look down pat!”

“Shut up, Wade.” Logan types in Hank’s emergency number, but nothing happens. “What the hell?”

The monitor fizzes, and suddenly an image of a very smug man pops up on the screen.

“Daken!” Logan automatically snarls.

“Hello, Daddy. Do yo—”

“Marcus Roston?” Deadpool squeaks gleefully, interrupting the moment. “My name is Robert Evans and I’d love to do a movie with you!”

The Daken on the screen flickers with confusion for a second before the expression smoothens. “You're in luck, Mister Evans. Marcus is my boyfriend. He’d love to give you an audience after your friends are dead.”

Wade happily makes to unsheathe his sword and Wolverine _snarls_. “Deadpool _stand DOWN_.”

That tone gets through to Wade and he stills, eyes wide and sharp. His delusions come and go which can make him a liability, but Wolverine has experience handling Deadpool’s mania and knows how to juggle his insanity. His code name in combination with a military tone is usually enough to jog him out of a hallucination, though it’s a last resort type thing because they inevitably come back twice as bad if Wolverine doesn’t let them run their course.

There’s no time to handhold him through this one, though.

Wolverine glares at him. “Check Nightcrawler. Now.”

Deadpool nods obediently and goes, mumbling half-delusional nonsense underneath his breath. Assured he isn’t going to murder Nightcrawler or do anything stupid, Wolverine turns back to the screen to where his boy Daken looks a cross between amused and politely bemused.

“Tough luck, son.” Wolverine says coldly. “Sounds like your boyfriend won’t be getting a call back. Now what the fuck do you want?”

He’d figured Daken would come for him the moment Reed Richards told him he was dying, but he hadn’t figured it would be like this, through a screen. Something is up. Something always is.

“Trouble in paradise?” The boy has the damn gall to laugh as if nothing’s wrong. “Your team is looking a little…lacking.” Implying he knows something about X-Force’s crumbling dynamic.

With Fantomex and Psylocke gone and Deadpool’s mind on the fritz and Nightcrawler down for the count, X-Force is on its last gasping breath. Wolverine has to get to the bottom of this before it snowballs into something even worse.

“Same could be said about you,” he says coolly. “Last I heard you were croaking. This yer last taunt afore you can it?”

“You really are an animal,” Daken remarks, resting a hand on his chin. “I guess it must run in the family.”

Logan grits his teeth and forces out a sigh. “Why are you calling, Daken?” What have you done?

“Can’t a good son call his father every now and then?” Daken laughs with a melodic sound that is unusual to him. Though the words and content sound familiar, there is none of the underhanded loathing, the half-bitten snarls. Daken’s present behavior is almost child-like and… _fake_.

Wolverine’s eyes narrow. Something is definitely wrong. Has Daken gone insane along with his healing factor? Considering just moments before he’d been dealing with Wade who is insane with or without it, it’s hard not to wonder if it’s a common result of a similar loss.

“You really are out of the loop, hm?” Daken smiles. “Here, I’ll bring you up to speed.” He turns and faces away from the camera. “Be a dear and bring the boy, would you?”

The boy?

Wolverine snarls in surprise and fury when Daken pulls Evan Sabahnur onto his lap. Evan looks dazed and groggy, as if he were in the throes of a deep slumber with his eyes open.

“Evan!” Wolverine barks and his whole body begins to shake with rage. “ _Daken_ ,” he snarls, blood boiling. He understands now, what the diversion was. Using White Sky, Sabretooth, Mystique and apparently also Daken had lured him away from the school, away from his responsibilities there, and kidnapped Evan right under his nose.

“You’re finally catching on!” Daken grins handsomely and nuzzles the side of Evan’s head. “It’s always a delight to see that face: the one that says _I’ve been had_.”

Wolverine feels like driving a claw through the monitors into his son’s smug face. There’s something sickeningly sexual to Daken’s mocking and it terrifies Wolverine, that his own son could be so twisted. That his horrible son now has an innocent boy in his clutches, a boy that could be taught to destroy them all if he so wishes. For Evan is a clone of Apocalypse, and Wolverine had only let him live because they’d murdered the previous boy-Apocalypse in cold blood and it had nearly torn X-Force apart.

But what if Apocalypse rises again? Oh God. _Oh God_.

Daken rests his chin on Evan’s shoulder and carries on as if nothing was wrong. “I figured your friends from that school of yours should have called you by now but you really are a hard man to get a hold of, hm?”

Wolverine’s heart is pounding a mile per minute. “Daken, don’t do this. He’s just a boy.”

“Oh, but it gets you looking so angry.” Daken smiles wide and presses a kiss to Evan’s head, laughing when it earns a chest-deep growl of incoherent fury from Wolverine. “You two sound so alike.”

Wolverine forces the shaking to stop. His mind goes cold, machine-like. “Sabretooth is working with you.”

“It’s more of a _you scratch my back and I scratch yours_ , but yes.” Daken hands over Evan’s body to someone off screen and sits back down, looking very pleased. “I give him your hate and I get to not be bored. It’s a very stable relationship.”

A familiar laugh off-screen makes Wolverine see red.

“Mystique’s there too, I see.”

“Mm, yes. We all get along quite well.” Daken leers at someone off camera, presumably Mystique. “You feeling properly humiliated yet, Daddy?”

Wolverine is silent, but his mind is going a mile per minute, analyzing the situation as best as he can. He does not recognize anything in the background, but that means little. With Hank’s help he might be able to analyze where the video was made and track it down. Why is Daken doing this?

Well, the boy is dying, according to Reed, so petty vengeance is not something that surprises Wolverine anymore. That he managed to rope the Brotherhood of Evil to his side doesn’t surprise him either. Sabretooth has always jumped at a chance to make Wolverine’s life miserable and Mystique is his on-going squeeze so of course she’d hop on board, too.

Who else is involved? Fuck, he can’t linger on stupidies. He has to get to Evan. He has to get to Daken. He has to—

“Right-o, pops. I’ve got to go home and check on a pet of mine and you’ve got to go to your school and make sure I haven’t taken any other one of your kids.”

Daken waves goodbye and Wolverine snarls a desperate, “ _Wait_ \--!”

“Ta ta!”

The line goes dead.

Wolverine slams his claws through the wall, howling in rage. Everything is going to shit. Everything! Cable fucking time up for Hope’s sake and getting his damn self into a coma; Cyclops getting possessed by Phoenix and murdering Professor X in cold blood, the Schism that dissolved their decades-long friendship; being sent to literally _Hell_ _itself_ and having to claw his way back, leaving the Elf behind; the Jean Grey School being nothing but a huge disaster from day one; Quentin fucking Quire being a fucking idiot-ass diva and nearly getting Wolverine to kill everyone; Warren going Apocalypse and losing his mind and fucking up their funding; X-Force murdering _children_ and now effectively murdering itself; and Daken—

“Yo, Boss-man,” Deadpool says meekly, perched atop of Nightcrawler’s stretcher like a cat avoiding water. “We, uh, kinda need the flight hanger intact, at the very least.”

Wolverine snaps out of it, blinking. He’s…nearly mauled the entirety of Cavern-X. His breath is coming in and out like a freight train and there’s drool dripping down his chin. He feels oddly displaced. He hasn’t lost control of himself like this in years, and if he were a weaker man (or alone), he’d be crying.

He does not cry. He sheathes his claws and exhales.

“We must return to the school,” Wolverine says calmly. “Get Nightcrawler back on the jet.”

“Aw man, but I just unloaded him!” Deadpool whines. “Plus, diagnostics are still running.”

Wolverine grabs the front of Deadpool’s costume and easily lifts him up, despite being a head shorter than the man. His gaze is dead-like calm. “Do not test me right now, Wilson.”

Without the mask and without the skin cancer, Wade is very handsome. He is also piss-pants terrified. “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” Wolverine says coolly. “Let’s go.”

 

 

~ ~ ~

Kitty storms into the room, Quentin Quire at her heels. “Hank, tell me what you know.”

“It was Mystique,” Hank summarizes, adjusting his glasses. “She avoided detection by the recognition system in our cameras by shape-shifting into students walking through the hallways. On the lawn she assumed Gambit’s form, and then walked off with Evan without any of us noticing.”

“How’d you miss that?” Quentin pipes in sarcastically. “Fake-Gambit was like, _right there_. And all of you knew he couldn’t be on school grounds ‘cause he wasn’t, and I quote, ‘visiting’.”

“Quentin’s right. There is no way all of us failed to notice a fake-Gambit right before our eyes.” Kitty bit her lip. “She must have had the help of someone with the powers of distortion or illusion. The only one I know who has such a power is Fantomex.”

“From Logan’s den of murderers?” Hank asks caustically.

Quentin perks up. “Den of murderers?”

Kitty glares at Hank. No one is supposed to know about X-Force and mentioning it aloud is prohibited. Hank, for his part, looks utterly unrepentant.

“I’m filtering the audio from the fight to see if we can parse out what Mystique told Evan to convince him to go with her as Gambit,” Hank carries on calmly. “Perhaps we can pin down whether an illusionist aided Mystique, if she managed it all on her own, or if something far more devious is afoot.”

“We have to talk to Logan,” Kitty says with an exhausted sigh. She runs a hand through her brown hair, disheveling it. “God, I let a student get stolen right from under my nose.”

Hank swiftly types out an emergency call to Wolverine, one that he'd left saying that it would connect to the X-Force HQ. It rings and rings.

“Wolverine isn’t answering his emergency phone,” Beast says with an undertone of fury. “Either he’s ignoring us, as he’s wont to do, or the connection has been destroyed.”

Kitty worries her lip more. She turns to Quentin. “I need to load you into Cerebro in order to locate him.”

“Uh, Cerebro?” Quentin blinks curiously. “I thought that was like, an old school thing. As in, not in this school.”

“Our institution has a lot of facilities that are not known to the public,” Storm says, walking in. “A Cerebro room is one of them.”

“Where did you put Sabretooth?” Kitty asks promptly.

“In the Isolation Room,” Storm says calmly. “We had a Bamf teleport him in. He did not struggle.”

“Isolation Room?” Quentin asks loudly. “What the hell? That sounds like some sort of torture dungeon! How many weird-ass rooms do you have in this place?”

Kitty ignores Quentin with ease. “I’ll go question him. I can phase into the room without the need of a Bamf.”

“Wait, ‘Isolation’ as in completely isolated? It IS a torture room, isn’t it?” Quentin bounces up and down excitedly. “Jesus Christ, you sickos! I wanna see!”

“Ororo, please get Quentin to Cerebro.” Kitty nods. “He should be able to contact Logan with that.”

Storm looks conflicted, clearly not liking the idea of using the students to do their work. Logan had founded this school in opposition to Scott’s idea to use students as soldiers. Using Quentin here felt dangerously like toeing the line.

“We need to get Evan back as soon as possible,” Kitty says with authority. “Every second that passes means the danger he’s in increases. Storm, do what I ask.”

Storm’s eyes narrow. Quentin begins to sweat. Something is going down here, he realizes. Some sort of power-play BS. And he’s smack in the middle of it.

“God, you all are super hot when you argue,” he blurts out.

That breaks the moment. Kitty makes an annoyed sound, Storm raises an elegant eyebrow, and Hank slaps a hand on his forehead.

“Come with me, Mister Quire,” Storm says with a sigh. “I will show you to Cerebro.”

“Where’d you get those cuffs, Prof?” Quentin says excitedly as they leave. “They’re adamantium, right? Did the Headmaster get ‘em or did you?”

The voices trail off as they disappear down the hallway. Kitty struggles with the urge to sigh, roll her eyes, scream in frustration, and throw up, all at once. She masters herself with ninja expertise.

“I’ll handle the electronics, dear,” Hank assures her. “Go see what you can get from Sabretooth, but be careful.”

Kitty nods. “I will. Thanks, Hank.”

 

 

~ ~ ~

“That went well,” Marcus says, pleased. He’s still wearing Daken’s face.

“You got him angry,” Mystique corrects with an amused smile. “He’ll track this place down soon enough.”

“Good. I can’t wait to see him drown.”

Mystique laughs. She’s actually laughing at Marcus, but thanks to Farouk’s ever-present mental shielding the man does not realize it. This will not kill Wolverine, she knows. If she and Sabretooth were sure it would really kill him then Victor wouldn’t have willingly gotten himself captured by Logan’s little friends. Victor would be forefront and center, savouring the last of ol’ Jimmy’s breaths.

But, well, Mystique plays the long con, and she’s been playing men like Marcus for much, much longer than the whelp has been alive. Both she and Sabretooth are well aware he is an imposter, and has been from day one. Amahl Farouk is a telepath on par with Professor X and he easily got past the low-level telepathic suggestion that Marcus had at all times when assuming Daken’s face, and realized his true identity.

Marcus Roston, a yuppie actor from L.A. A famous one, at that. Mystique herself has seen a couple of his movies: big blockbuster types, full of over-the-top acting, explosions, and large-breasted women. His arrest had been a national scandal, his escape from prison a global one. The police are still after him but clearly the sly shape-shifter is using his mutations to keep himself a step ahead of them. Why he’s impersonating Daken, Mystique does not know.

Still, it serves their purpose for Marcus to continue his charade. Mystique is uninterested in Marcus’s motivations, only in what he can bring to the table. And he is bringing them Wolverine, which is a fine offering indeed. Victor always looks forward to pissing Jimmy off, and the anticipation makes him delightful in bed.

“Are you leaving again?” she asks, amused. “Back to your…’pet’?”

“Mmhmm,” the fake Daken hums. “But I’ll be bringing him next time. He’s a star player. Cheez-It?” He holds up a bag of the cheap food.

“No, thank you.” She very much dislikes the things but she’s used to Victor eating red guts around her, so it’s not as if she’s going to act disgusted even though Cheez-Its are pretty gross. “Tell your ‘pet’ he’s welcome to watch the show. It’s bound to be interesting.”

“Oh, I live for the interesting,” Marcus says with a wide grin that seems strange on Daken’s face. “Keep me informed of Farouk’s progress with Evan. Ta ta!”

Gross. Mystique feels oddly offended for the real Daken, to have such a bad fake running around, but she figures he has to be the one pulling this idiot’s strings. Daken wouldn’t let some scarecrow moron of a man like this run around with his face without good reason.

The ‘pet’ he keeps talking about, she’s deduced, is the real Daken. When she’d first realized it her maternal instincts had screamed at her to go see the young man, because being called a ‘pet’ was not something that rang positive bells in conjunction with Daken. But Daken had played her well, the last time they’d met. Daken had faked his death with the help of the demon possessing Wolverine’s hell-bound body and that had hurt Mystique. While she could appreciate a good deception, she’d honestly liked the boy and had genuinely mourned his death for the few weeks he’d disappeared, before the bastard had resurfaced in L.A. with no call to anyone. Why ditch her like that? They could have done great things together. Alas.

While Mystique wonders why Daken was using this Marcus man as his double, she pointedly tells herself that she does not know nor does she care. Daken is a boy to her, but he is a man to the world. He can do as he pleases. She often feuds with the men in her life, anyway. Presently she is getting along marvelously with Victor but with their record this will inevitably change. Mystique is not a woman to linger on regrets, even though she does hold grudges. She prefers to enjoy the moment.

And presently this fake-Daken is helping her unleash the powers of Apocalypse, which will be at their disposal with Farouk’s expertise. Mystique is ambitious and the idea appeals to her even though intellectually she knows it is a delicate operation being handled by indelicate men. The odds of it succeeding are, as they always are at such grand scales, remarkably low. Still, she likes the excitement it brings.

At least, that’s what she tells herself.

 

 

~ ~ ~

While the X-Force jet is nowhere near as technologically advanced as _E.V.A_. had been, it is well stocked and damn fast. Wolverine’s halfway to New York from Cavern-X’s location in Arizona when he gets struck with a familiar telepathic blow to the head.

“Quire!” he yelps aloud, clutching his skull. Fucking KID! What was he up to now, of all times?

“ _Sorry, sorry_ ,” rings the boy’s voice inside his mind. “ _Not used to this thing yet_.”

It’s oddly accented, and Wolverine realizes it must be because he’s using Cerebro. Unless Quire has mastered a control that took Jean years to get in an afternoon, there’s no way Quentin could reach him telepathically across the country on a moving jet without the machine.

“ _What the hell are you using Cerebro for?_ ” Wolverine snarls out telepathically. He is in no mood for more of his revolution/civil war crap. “ _Are you causing shit again_?”

“ _I fucking wish! This is an SOS call courtesy of the staff._ _Lips was—I mean, er,_ Evan _got taken by uh, some chick named Mystique.”_

Wolverine growls. “ _I know_.” If the staff knew too then it was inevitable: Hank and Kitty were going to murder him when he arrived.

“ _She impersonated Profe—wait, you knew_?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Wolverine says shortly. “ _Daken is behind it, along with Sabretooth and Mystique_.”

“ _Daken, your dickish son who looks a lot like me_?”

Wolverine quells the urge to slam his claws into the jet itself. He’s already trashed Cavern-X. He can’t trash the jet or they’ll fall.

The swelling of emotional anger must have gotten through the telepathic link because Wolverine can practically feel Quentin wince. He feels mildly sorry but he’s so coolly furious that he can’t spare the sympathy.

“ _Look, I can’t stop to tip toe around all the fucking land minds in your brain, okay_?” Quentin sounds frustrated. “ _You have to get your ass back here ASAP ‘cause Professor Kitty’s locked this big guy Sabretooth in the torture roo—er, Isolation Room, or something_.”

“ _What? You caught Sabretooth_?” No fucking way.

_“Yeah way. The thing is I think he let himself get caught. And I dunno what the teachers believe but that guy’s feral as shit and a room with no doors ain’t gonna hold him back from breaking out if he really wants to.”_

Wolverine growls, palms sweating. Shit’s going down in too many places and he can’t be everywhere. On automatic he glances over at the stretchers, where Deadpool is dangerously sleeping away his concussion and Nightcrawler’s still on the I.V. with a head full of white hair. Things fall apart, the center cannot hold. At least the falcon can still hear the falconer.

“ _Okay, Quire, I’m going to ask something big of you_.”

Quentin’s ahead of him, already understanding what his mind is proposing. “ _You want me to go Alpha & Omega on his ass_.”

Wolverine nods, even though there is no visual contact between them. “ _I know you can do it. You did it to me, like a fuckin’ pro._ ”

“ _Aww gee whiz, Prof, you’re making me blush._ ” Quentin actually is flushed with pride but thankfully Logan cannot see him. “ _I can’t hold that shit for long, though. It fucks me up big time_.”

Wolverine clenches his hands into the seat in front of him. A flash of many emotions go through him. He’d yelled at Scott when the man had suggested they train the students as soldiers. He’s still pissed at Slim about it, among many other things. But Logan has always been a walking hypocrite, because here he’s clearly using Quentin as a soldier, putting his health at risk.

“ _Jesus fuck old man, cool the nausea, okay_?”

Ah, shit. He forgot Quentin’s tied to his brain, and can feel his surface emotion. “ _Sorry, kid. Cut the connection and monitor the situation for me. If Sabretooth starts getting out, dump his brain in a virtual mind field._ ”

“ _I know, I know, don’t get your knickers in a bloody twist. ‘Kay. G’luck, Prof. Peace out._ ”

“Good luck, Quire,” Logan sighs out loud, even though he knows Quentin’s already gone. He puts his head in his hands and breathes in and out, deeply. He’s arming his little toy soldiers with daggers. He never meant to force them to fight his own battles, like Slim had wanted. He’d only ever wished they could defend themselves.

“Say hello to my little friend,” Deadpool murmurs sleepily, his hands coming up to mock-shoot the ceiling. “Bang-bang-bang.”

Logan exhales the exhaustion away and Wolverine stands up, coming over to check both of his fallen teammates conditions. He might be a lousy father, he might be a lousy teacher, but damned if he’s going to be a lousy field leader.


End file.
